


Insoluble

by dracoqueen22



Series: Interwoven [2]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, M/M, Rough Sex, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, past twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:16:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2750813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stab the frame and it heals. Injure the spark and the wound lasts a lifetime. No one knows this better than Megatron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Indivisible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/989996) by [dracoqueen22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22). 



> The summary is taken from a quote by Mineko Iwasaki though I adjusted a few words to suit this universe. Thank you Skywinder for helping me find the owner of the quote. 
> 
> This is a partner fic to Indivisible and is Megatron's side of the story.

“Does it bother you?”  
  
The question is lost to the pleasure, the static dancing over his plating, alighting his sensors one by one. Sunstreaker shivers, writhing beneath a heavy frame, talons sinking into gaps and refusing to relinquish their grip.  
  
The dark chuckle resonates in his audials. “So pretty,” his lover purrs. “So fierce.”  
  
Sunstreaker moans, arching upward, desperate for more friction, for pleasure to replace the pain, the ache of betrayal.  
  
“Does it bother you, gold one?” the voice asks, seductive and rumbling through Sunstreaker's audials.  
  
Heated ex-vents wash over him. He forces his optics online, looks up into the face of power and madness, crimson optics and sharpened denta.  
  
“Does it bother you?” Sunstreaker asks, challenges, glossa sliding over his lips.  
  
Those optics narrow. The grip on his hips tighten. Metal buckles, squealing under the assault, and the pain is a spice to the pleasure.  
  
Sunstreaker gasps, spark swirling and swirling, pushing at the locks on his chamber. He trembles.  
  
“So bold,” Megatron purrs at him, leaning down, heavier and heavier, nearly crushing the frontliner beneath him. He outweighs Sunstreaker. He's more than half again Sunstreaker's height.  
  
Somehow, that makes it all better.  
  
“Did it hurt?” Megatron asks.  
  
Sunstreaker shutters his optics again, bares the vulnerability of his throat to the Lord High Protector. Is it trust? Or is it blind daring? The world may never know.  
  
Megatron takes the invitation. His denta scrapes the delicate plating, tugs on the cables and the main energon line. Sunstreaker can feel the threat in them.  
  
He shivers again.  
  
“It must have hurt,” Megatron says, and Primus but he talks more than Sideswipe.  
  
Sunstreaker works his intake, forces down the thought, the memory. He ignores the churning of his spark, clutches at Megatron until energon wells up beneath his talons. He'll have to clean it later, with his glossa, while Megatron watches and purrs beneath him.  
  
Sunstreaker's engine revs.  
  
“It is a pain like none other,” Megatron says, on the edge of a ventilation, the need in his vocals now matching Sunstreaker's own. “It burns. It cleanses.”  
  
“Yes,” Sunstreaker hisses, legs scrabbling against the berth, the charge a sharp burn-dance through his lines, driving him higher and higher.  
  
His spark throbs. His chestplates jutter.  
  
Megatron chuckles, the vibrations delightful against Sunstreaker's intake. He gasps, draws in heated burst of air after heated burst, writhes trapped between Megatron and the berth.  
  
“We do what we must,” Megatron murmurs.  
  
“Yes!”  
  
“What we need.”  
  
Sunstreaker manages a needy groan, vocalizer spitting static otherwise.  
  
“We break,” Megatron purrs the last, “the bond.”  
  
Errors scream at him. More pain creeps in around the edges of the pleasure, swallowing him whole, and it doesn't matter because he can't tell the difference. One sensation is as good as the other. Either is better than nothing.  
  
His spark sings, feels the pulse of Lord Megatron's, despite the thick and heavy layers of battle-grade armor. The same off-rhythm reach.  
  
Megatron's helm slides against his, a susurrus of metal on metal, his lipplates mere inches from Sunstreaker's audials.  
  
“And we are free.”  
  
Sunstreaker overloads, his entire frame jerking upward from the berth, slamming against Megatron's. He shouts his pleasure, the sound ringing through the berthroom, the discharge snapping out and burrowing into Megatron's substructure.  
  
He's burning up, he can't get cool air, and he doesn't fragging care. Not when Megatron is shoving him down to the berth, keeping him pinned, roaring his own overload in a near-violent wave of skittering electric charge.  
  
Sunstreaker pants for air through his mouth, unwilling yet to disentangle his talons from Megatron's substructure. The heavy weight of the Lord High Protector is a willing cage around his frame. The purr of Megatron's engine vibrates him.  
  
A glossa teases his audial before Megatron pulls back and Sunstreaker onlines his optics, capturing that red gaze.  
  
“We will show them,” Sunstreaker says, vocalizer rough with static. His own engine purrs agreement.  
  
“Yes,” Lord Megatron says, the back of his hand stroking the side of Sunstreaker's face and touching the pinprick of energon on his throat. “We will.”  
  


***


	2. Insoluble Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loves Optimus and he hates him and Megatron can see only one way to reconcile this.

“Show them,” Megatron growls as the Seekers announce the call to battle above them.   
  
He looks into the blue optics of his gold lover, grips his jaw with careful talons, and presses their forehelms together. Sunstreaker quivers with battle-lust, his swords already extended, shimmering with heat in the charged atmosphere.   
  
“And when you return,” Megatron adds, drawing a drop of energon with his thumb. “I will take your spark.”   
  
A full-frame shiver dances over golden plating. Sunstreaker jerks his helm and captures Megatron's thumb with his mouth, denta biting at his talon.   
  
“Oh, the promises you make,” he purrs and tears away, whirling fast and sharp on those wheeled pedes of his, a trait the twin-brothers share.   
  
Megatron stands, his army ahead and behind him, and watches Sunstreaker take his rightful place on the front lines. Megatron will join him soon enough. He can see his own prey in the distance, weak and guarded by a phalanx of warbuild traitors.   
  
They protect him as they do their noble Senate, their useless council.   
  
And Optimus will fall as they have.   
  
For Megatron to keep an optic on Sunstreaker in the midst of battle is an insult to his golden partner's skill. Sunstreaker is not worthy of his Decepticon badge if he can't protect himself. And Megatron has seen him in battle.   
  
He has full faith in Sunstreaker.   
  
This battle is key. Pivotal. Megatron needs a victory here if he intends to win this war. They cannot afford to lose. The Decepticons have attacked in full force and the Autobots have responded in kind, pathetic though it may be.   
  
The clash of bot against bot is music to Megatron's audials. The ground rumbles with the tread of thousands of Cybertronians and ordinance. The air is rank with smoke and ash and spilt energon.   
  
He takes Soundwave and Barricade as he cuts through the Autobot army for their vaunted leader. He has optics for Optimus alone. And he doesn't need them to find his brother. He need only follow the pull on his spark, the nonverbal calling.   
  
He comes optic to optic with his former general, the traitor, and Megatron growls, Ironhide falling to his onslaught.   
  
“I taught you all you know!” Megatron roars at the beaten pile of spare parts, twitching in his wake, energon staining the plain.   
  
And then there is nothing between himself and Optimus, the other guards occupied by Megatron's own allies.   
  
Optimus is small and weak, but he doesn't cower. At least he has the pride to stand firm, to draw his sword however unskilled he holds it. Megatron can see evidence of Ironhide in Optimus' frame.   
  
So they seek to teach a scientist to fight? And how unwilling has he been to learn, Megatron wonders.   
  
“We meet at last,” he says.   
  
“Megatron, can we not cease this?” Optimus asks, ever the peace maker. Ever the talker even long after words no longer suffice.   
  
Megatron shakes his helm. “We have passed such things, brother.” And the pain, it consumes him.   
  
The push-pull, the strike-yield. His frame trembles. His plating clatters. His vision fills with static and the world is at once too loud and too silent.   
  
He loves Optimus and he hates him and Megatron can see only one way to reconcile this. He attacks and Optimus is lucky enough to dodge the first blow. He has always been a nimble mech and now is no exception.   
  
Agility is not enough to save him. He is prey and Megatron is predator and a single misstep causes Optimus to be pinned beneath Megatron, subject to an onslaught of blows. He can hear his vents wheezing heat. He can feel each blow, the metal buckling under his fists. He isn't firing his cannon, finds no reason to do so.   
  
He can hear Optimus gasping, the static cries and reminders. His spark is screaming with agony and there's a shouting in his audials. There is a relentless pinging, a shriek in his processor.   
  
And then impact. Something crashes into Megatron, sending him tumbling backward. He grapples with his new opponent, tearing with talons and denta, snarling. There is a blur of plating and crushing blows. By the time Megatron works his way free, throwing his assailants in opposite directions, it is clear they are only a distraction.   
  
A rotary is streaking into the distance and Optimus is nowhere in sight. Megatron roars his anger.   
  
This is far from over.   
  
The truth, however, is clear. The Autobots have called a retreat. But so, Megatron comes to learn, have the Decepticons. This is, at best, a stalemate.   
  
There is always tomorrow.   
  
But he has dearly underestimated how viciously love-turned-hate can poison.   
  
Soundwave is the one who tells him, as Megatron is sloughing his way through bullet-pocked frames and pools of energon. The coordinates ping on Megatron's HUD and he follows them, a pathetically short distance away.   
  
Laserbeak stands guard over the broken frame. There is worry, even now, of scavengers.   
  
“Leave,” Megatron growls.   
  
The casseticon squawks and takes off, a fog of ash rising in the wake of wings.   
  
And Megatron is alone as he drops to his knees, as he reaches with energon-stained talons for the limp gold frame. Sunstreaker is far less damaged than Megatron would have expected, but the evidence of an energon blade lays in thick, black stripes across his armor, marring the once perfect paint.   
  
He would have been furious.   
  
Megatron traces the lengths of them, a lifetime spent in battle telling him the story of the fight. No, the duel. Because this could only be Sideswipe's work.   
  
This strike here, luck. This jab here, anger. This slash here, desperation. This hesitant scrape... regret.   
  
Megatron's hand rests on Sunstreaker's chestplate, where the gaping wound is testament to the final blow. The one that prevented any hope of a medic proving himself a miracle. He doesn't have to scan to know that there isn't a trace of spark energy.   
  
He bows his helm and offlines his optics.   
  
Words are not Megatron's forte. Not for situations like this. His spark aches and in this moment, it speaks nothing of Optimus. His brotherbetrayertwin is far from his thoughts.   
  
He sits in silence. Feels the ash-choked airflows against his plating. Listens to the dim noise of clean up. Feels Soundwave's regard, from a distance, waiting.   
  
“We should have been free,” Megatron murmurs at last, his other hand allowing a final caress to Sunstreaker's helm. “But you, at least, precede me in it.”   
  
He scoops Sunstreaker's frame into his arms and pushes to his pedes, refusing to allow his gold lover to be another statistic. Another casualty to the Senate's might.   
  
It is, however, another crime to add to Optimus' tally.   
  
He will pay for this, Megatron vows, his hands tightening in their grip. He has nothing left to lose. 

***


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron seeks to retrieve what is rightfully his and once again, Optimus denies him.

After Sunstreaker there are battles, more than Megatron can count. The Autobots lose ground. Cities are destroyed. Cybertron is soaked with the energon of the fallen.   
  
Optimus grows stronger, proves a challenge. He is not so easily beaten. But neither is Megatron so easily deterred.   
  
He pushes hard against the Autobot menace. He overruns Tyger Pax, thinks himself in line for victory, and then Optimus does the unthinkable.   
  
He casts their most precious artifact into space and what can Megatron do but go after it?  
  
He chases the Allspark into the endless black. It is as much his own desire as it is the latent remains of his Protectorate coding. He leaves chaos behind him, trusting his lieutenants to carry on in his absence.   
  
But the imperative to reclaim and protect the Allspark is stronger than all else.   
  
He makes a mistake.   
  
The Allspark lands on some cursed organic planet. Megatron falls prey to the ambient temperature and the unstable ground. The frozen wasteland is a shock to systems already exhausted from his journey across the universe.   
  
He slips into stasis on the aft end of the galaxy, the Allspark within reach and yet too far. He curses Optimus with his last fully processed thought.   
  
The rest are glitches. Memories, he thinks. Or recharge purges. Organics might call them dreams.   
  
He's not fully aware. He doesn't have even the dimmest sense of his frame. Diagnostics are offline. He knows he's alive, he still functions, but Megatron is removed from it.   
  
His spark spins. It yearns.   
  
Megatron remembers onlining beside Optimus. He looks into the optics of the stranger next to him and knows he'll never love another.   
  
He remembers being the first mech Optimus acknowledges. The first Optimus reaches for.   
  
Long before they know their names, their duties, their stations, they know each other.   
  
Until there comes a point Megatron wonders if he's ever known Optimus all along.   
  
His soldiers, dying by the thousands. And those that live return to nothing, to ostracizing and near-slavery and contempt. What existence is this endless battle? What freedom?  
  
And Optimus, so deaf to their plight. Buried in his books and his studies, optics eager with new discovery. Bright to the darkness Megatron can't help but bring to their berth.   
  
Megatron no longer takes comfort in Optimus' spark. He doesn't find solace in his twin's arms. He feels nothing but contempt for the half of himself that doesn't understand pain or suffering.   
  
And Megatron, Lord High Protector, is helpless to protect his own soldiers. His brothers in arms.   
  
He rages to no one who listens.   
  
Optimus suggests diplomacy to mechs who paint pretty lies and bear blind optics to them.   
  
Megatron is left without a choice.   
  
He shivers on the floor of his berth in a pool of his own energon. His talons bury in his substructure. He tears free his own lines and writhes in agony as he turns his processor on himself.   
  
He ruthlessly shreds line after line of code. He rakes through his vows, his restrictions. He howls to a God who does not care and he promises himself.   
  
_**Never again**_.   
  
He rises a new mech, a leader from the tatters of Lord high Protector. He is something more. He is not only.   
  
He is Megatron.   
  
The years pass in a blink and Megatron emerges from the cold-induced stasis with the past rage simmering in his vocalizer. He doesn't entirely know where he is. Starscream flits above him, peppering him with a millennia worth of data bursts and it is all inconsequential. His spark sings.   
  
optimus  
  
 _Optimus_  
  
 ** _OPTIMUS_**.  
  
The Allspark is a distant tug compared to the siren call of his brother's spark.   
  
He launches from the crumbling remains of a human structure, not enough and never enough to hold him. He follows, unerringly, the pulse of his brother's spark and the call of the Allspark.   
  
There is more battle and chaos. This, at least, is welcome and familiar. His body is unfamiliar to him, sluggish from the cold. His processor aches. There are memories not his, evidence of foreign entities creeping through his coding.   
  
Megatron shakes them off, wades through the sea of organics, and discards broken Autobots like useless toys. He seeks to retrieve what is rightfully his and once again, Optimus denies him.   
  
Optimus betrays him.   
  
The pain in his chassis consumes him, a blazing inferno. Energy scorches his circuits, his internals. He collapses, the shadow of his brother like a cooling wave as darkness descends over him.   
  
Optimus' optics are so blue, bluer than this planet's sky. His field drizzles with sadness, with regret.   
  
Megatron scoffs in the face of it.   
  
_You never understood me._  
  
Megatron reaches instead for the gold shadow in the distance, waiting but not with patience. He never had patience.   
  
This time, Optimus is not his last conscious thought. And Megatron thinks, at last, he is free.   
  


***


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small victories, but many of them ring too hollow for Megatron's comfort.

Death is a lot less permanent than he expects it to be.   
  
He doesn't find himself in the Pit or the Allspark. Instead, he floats in a sort of weightless ether, tethered to some unknown mass. There's a pull within him, on the ghostly flickers of his spark.   
  
It's silent here. And it's filled with voices.   
  
Megatron flees from the memories of his past. He wants nothing to do with happier times or Optimus. Those ring false to him, those happy lies, those illusions.   
  
'Is this punishment?' he wonders aloud and nothing answers because nothing listens.   
  
He's alone. And he finds himself in the past anyway, though luckily, a past without Optimus' taint attached to it.   
  
He's in pain when he goes stomping through the main camp, daring anyone to challenge him. His spark is unsettled, charge rising and misfiring within him in an endless tide.   
  
He seeks an outlet and no one here will provide one. His lieutenants have dispersed. Even Starscream has gone to negotiate with Vos for reinforcements. There is no one here who can serve a distraction.   
  
Megatron prowls into the arena, but practicing mechs flee in the face of the menace. The largest of his warriors cower on the sidelines, unwilling to test their mettle. Even Lugnut bows out, claiming he is no match for the glory that is Megatron.   
  
Behind him, there are whispers. A scuff of pedesteps over the ground. The snick of a weapon disengaging from standby.   
  
Megatron smirks and turns slowly. At last, one of his warriors shows a spark of courage.   
  
But the gold-plated mech slinking into view is neither familiar nor branded. He is not a Decepticon, not a warrior, and not a soldier. His blue optics paint him a civilian, despite the battle-weight of his armor. He's small, too, better the size of a merchant.   
  
Gold paint is scuffed. One arm-mounted blade is chipped. Either he's seen battle recently or he'd suffered damage on his journey to this camp. Maybe someone had taken offense to his decision to fight against the Prime.   
  
“You are not a Decepticon,” Megatron observes.   
  
The mech smirks and lifts his undamaged blade, free fingers teasing down the length of it. “Not yet.”   
  
“What stops you?”   
  
A golden helm tips, shoulder mounted tires spinning. “I wanted to see who was stronger.”   
  
He holds no identification code, not even to Megatron's tattered links to the database. This mech technically does not exist. He's an anomaly, a mistake, an undesired. He's like so many of Megatron's army, desperate for worth.   
  
Megatron's lips curl. “And so you challenge me.”   
  
“Well, no one else was going to take your offer. I couldn't waste the opportunity.”   
  
Megatron chuckles. “What's your designation, soldier?”   
  
The mech slides into a fighting stance, one that is a mingled form of the classical styles Megatron had been taught. Unlike Megatron, this one never had any formal teaching. “You get it if you win.”   
  
If? Megatron's engine purrs. His systems cycle to battle readiness.   
  
“Very well.” He crooks a talon at his challenger. “Your move.”   
  
The mech needs no further invitation. He crosses the arena in a blur of gold, his energy field slamming into Megatron first. He is taken aback by the familiarity of it. The pain of a shattered bond. The desperate search for a balm.   
  
And though the gold mech is skilled, he has no hope of victory. He presses on as though he has a wish for death, even as his armor litters the ground and energon stains his paint. He refuses to surrender after both blades are shattered. He picks himself up through a dislocated shoulder and refuses to yield.   
  
He chokes up energon when Megatron slams him down by the intake. One optic flickers, the other is far too bright, too blue. His cooling fans roar, his frame screams heat. He thrashes, one hand gripping Megatron's wrist.   
  
“Yield!” Megatron snarls at him, squeezing. He aches from lucky strikes. His spark is still in pain. And they have an audience that he can't show weakness.   
  
He does not want to see this one offline.   
  
“Never... again...,” the mech gurgles, his functional optic blazing, energy field discordant and defiant.   
  
The words echo, so familiar.   
  
Megatron's hold loosens. He looks at the gold mech, feels the desperate whirl of a broken spark the broken frame.   
  
“No,” he murmurs, with understanding. “We don't.”   
  
He releases the mech, who rolls onto his side, intakes rattling and energon dribbling from his lips. The mech coughs a vent and tries to move, grinding metal on metal.   
  
“Why?” Megatron asks though he already knows the answer.   
  
One hand, two fingers twisted and useless, pushes against the ground. “Sunstreaker,” he grits out with a look over his ruined shoulder. “My lord.”   
  
Megatron dips his helm and rises to his pedes. “I will summon a medic. When you are repaired, come to my quarters. I will see to your brand myself.”   
  
Sunstreaker's frame gives out and he collapses. But understanding lights his energy field aflame.   
  
Kinship.   
  
That is what Megatron feels. He keeps his word and summons their best medic. He has a vested interest in keeping Sunstreaker alive and Flatline is best suited to do so. He's no Ratchet, but Sunstreaker won't offline in his care.   
  
It is later that Sunstreaker at last submits to him, screaming his release as Megatron pins his smaller frame to the berth. It is Sunstreaker who parts his chestplate, baring his spark, and writhing at the touch of talons to the vulnerable swirls of blue.   
  
Yet, he doesn't flinch when Megatron takes the welder and inscribes the Decepticon brand on his midline.   
  
Sunstreaker is the solace Megatron finds.   
  
Sunstreaker tells him about his brother, about Sideswipe, and the schism between them. Megatron hears echoes of his own twin in Sunstreaker's story, and wonders if it's Primus' will that Sunstreaker is here with him.   
  
Megatron returns the favor. He tells Sunstreaker about Optimus, about Orion. The mechs they had been before they inherited their roles, and they mechs they were trained to become.   
  
And Megatron thinks, he doesn't mind if he were to stay here. If his failure culminated in remaining in these memories, these soft moments in the black.   
  
But death doesn't bring him the peace he expects. It doesn't allow him to remain with his golden shadow. Because Megatron is forced online by the last Allspark shard, and he's taken – unsteady and weak – to the service of a mech they'd all believed to be myth.   
  
There is no peace. There is no joy. Not when he kneels before the Fallen, wrapped in shackles once more, and reminded of what it feels to serve a Prime.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Megatron had thought there is no mech he could hate more than Optimus Prime.   
  
He is wrong.   
  
The weight of the Lord High Protector coding had been familiar and comfortable, until he tore it free from his processor. The slithering lines of the Fallen's demands for obedience are worse, far worse.   
  
Megatron cowers like an Autobot in the face of this mechanism. He is nothing. Not warrior or soldier or lord. He is the means to the end, a servant, a slave.   
  
The Fallen vows to lead the Decepticons to victory.   
  
Megatron would rather they all fail. He would rather die than see a Prime take that which he has worked so hard to build and use it for his ends.   
  
Megatron is weak.   
  
And he thanks the god that doesn't listen that Sunstreaker is not here to see this.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Taking the boy had been a ploy worthy of Decepticon planning. Not that Megatron cares for the rest of the Fallen's plot. It feels terribly counterproductive and convoluted.   
  
But it does succeed in one aspect.   
  
It draws Optimus out. Optimus, always willing to sacrifice himself for the first hard luck case to wander his direction. Who has never, even now, been willing to admit his own value. Who still can't see the struggle of his own in the face of the struggle of others.   
  
He comes for the boy.   
  
And for the first time since Megatron's rude awakening, he feels his spark sing.   
  
The battle is not fair. But when has anything in this war been fair? And Optimus, fragging Optimus, is concerned only for the human.   
  
He is pathetic. He is weak.   
  
He is everything Megatron sees in himself right now and that burns in his lines like the worst flavor of acid rain.   
  
He does not hesitate when he slams his cannon into Optimus' chest. Or when he fires. Not once but multiple times. He's prepared himself for this moment. He's been ready for millennia.   
  
And when he watches Optimus slump to the ground, burning the organic matter around him with the heat of his frame, Megatron waits for satisfaction to follow. He waits for the relief, the joy of victory.  
  
He waits for a feeling that does not come.   
  
Reinforcements arrive and Megatron is forced to flee, leaving the mangled frame of his brother behind, and he realizes, to his horror, that he takes no pleasure in the sight. There is a hollowness in his chest that has nothing to do with the ache of Allspark remnants.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
There's little to salvage in the Fallen's ship. There's not enough supplies or soldiers to wage war against the Autobots. Not anymore.   
  
They are worse off now than before the Fallen's arrival.   
  
Megatron touches his helm, the swarm of repair bots futile in the face of such damage. Optimus has not lost his touch.   
  
Megatron's frame glitches on him, failing at inopportune moments. He can't access his preferred weaponry. He needs a medic and resources.   
  
He wishes he'd never woken from the Abyss.   
  
He's alone here, alone again. He sent away Starscream before he followed through with the urge to offline the sniveling Seeker. But his last words linger.   
  
“ _Neither of you can stay offline_ ,” Starscream had sneered, circling around Megatron like some terran bird of prey. “ _This war can't be won_.”   
  
Megatron loathes his second all the more for being right. That doesn't mean he will suffer Starscream's insubordination. He sends Starscream out to gather what's left of the Decepticon empire and bring it to Earth.   
  
This must be their final stand. Whatever may come after.   
  
Megatron wanders through the empty corridors and past offline frames. He wades through millennia of detritus and peers into shadows. The scrapheap of a ship shudders in its final death throes. Semi-sentient, it won't survive much longer without its Primal host.   
  
Megatron will have to flee to their makeshift base on Earth. That is not an appealing prospect. The Autobots have proven the will to do whatever it takes to defend it.   
  
Optimus is no less dedicated. He's also alive once more, just as Megatron had returned from the call of the Allspark.   
  
They are doomed to fight each other until eternity, it seems. Starscream's accusation, while spoken in frustrated anger, perhaps is truth.   
  
No Prime had ever lived long without his Lord High Protector, and vice versa. They'd seen what had become of the Fallen.   
  
Megatron scratches at his chestplate. His spark aches. His plating itches as though scraplets have taken up residence.   
  
He remembers, again, feeling Optimus die by his hands. He remembers realizing it had not been enough.   
  
He wonders which is the true punishment in the end.   
  
His comm beeps. Megatron, startled, almost ignores it. He'd forgotten, in the madness about Soundwave. His communications specialist is still circling Earth, monitoring the airwaves and Deception frequencies.   
  
He's found something on Earth's moon, something that speaks of a deal made long past. Something Megatron had almost forgotten.   
  
It is, Megatron thinks, their last chance.   
  
Very well.   
  
He abandons the degrading ship, leaving it gray and crumbling in the vastness of space.   
  
Once more into the breach. One way or another, this will end.   
  
His spark will settle for nothing less.   
  


****


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus is not dead. Megatron lives. And there are no more Decepticon medics left.

  
There are no Decepticon medics left. Or if there are, they are too far to be of use to Megatron.   
  
He limps away from the tatters of Chicago with the realization that, implied truce aside, he limps to his death. He has no allies, no supplies, and nothing to his designation.   
  
Optimus killing him would have been kinder, in retrospect. What does this old spark have left to crave?   
  
Like a wounded beast, Megatron searches for the best place to lie down and offline. It is not an honorable passing, such as dying in battle as should be his lot. But it is shameful and no less than he desires.   
  
Failure should have no lesser consequence.   
  
He finds a fallen warship, useless now for flight but hollowed enough to serve as a tomb. He does not deserve to offline amid his fallen brethren, but there is little choice otherwise. To collapse in the street would invite human scavengers to take advantage of his remains and Megatron has just enough pride left that he cannot allow such a desecration.   
  
His strength fails him. His spark is an uneven flutter. He stumbles into the wreckage, no balance left in his frame.   
  
The scent of spilled energon is strong here, more than that of charred metal and spent ordinance. The ambient temperature is unpleasant, hot and sticky, like this cursed planet. And Prime wishes to make a home here? Clearly something has gone glitched in his brother's helm.   
  
Cybertron would have served a better tomb. Alas, his frame hasn't the means or energy to take him so far. Closer now than it had been, but too far for Megatron to reach.   
  
Megatron tucks himself into a corner wreathed in shadows and half-concealed by collapsed structural panels. He is glad he can't see the mess he has become or the ruin of his once-powerful frame. Once he had been a grand protector. Now he has been beaten into submission by not one, but three Primes. He is an insult to the title given him.   
  
Or perhaps it is only proof that Primus has only ever meant the Lord High Protector to be servant to the Prime. First with the shackles of love and loyalty. And then with the bonds of coding and duty.   
  
Megatron has come full circle with nothing to show for it save the energon of millions on his hands. Such a price to pay for nothing to gain. He and his Decepticons survive, but still in thrall to the rule of a Prime.   
  
Megatron tilts his helm back and offlines his optics. His ventilations slow to a wheeze. There's an unpleasant spatter of something within his internals. Another organ grinds internally, metal on metal. There's too much pain to distinguish one damaged sector from another.   
  
His vents echo around him, an off-rhythm to the pulse of his weakened spark. He has no artifact to call on for strength. There is no ancient scrap of Primus to serve as confidant and consultant. He does not pray. He does not beg forgiveness.   
  
He sinks into the depths of his programming and he waits for the end to come.   
  


0o0o0

  
The first thing Megatron acknowledges as he rises from the darkness is the sound of something cursing. It's spoken in a mutter, almost offhand, as though the orator curses not out of true anger, but habit.   
  
Confusion makes his awareness arrive even more sluggishly. Surely Primus would be more dignified than to rely on a stream of invective better suited to the slums of Iacon.   
  
Dimly, sensation returns. His ventilations, he notes, are deep and even. His diagnostics trickle in status updates that speak of good health, not optimal, but no longer worthy of a quick end. He is fueled to be functional, but that is extravagant compared to the state of underfueling running his Decepticons ever since he awoke from being frozen.   
  
Megatron's optics online and the first thing he sees is a roof of corrugated steel and a single overhanging light, swaying in minute arcs. Distant to the sound of low cursing is that of music and laughter, the dull thump of large objects in motion.   
  
This is not the Allspark, or whatever serves for an afterlife now that their precious repository has been shattered.   
  
“At last, the fair prince awakens.”   
  
He knows that voice.   
  
He turns his helm, but he acknowledges the speaker long before he lays optics on him. “Ratchet,” he says. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”   
  
“My code of ethics.” The terribly green-yellow medic stomps further into view and his presence explains the source of the cursing. “That and the terms of a truce you neglected to stick around and discuss.”  
  
Megatron twitches his frame. It responds to his commands. He is not even restrained. Either Ratchet overestimates his ability to withstand an assault, or he trusts in Megatron's agreement to the truce.   
  
“There seemed little point,” Megatron says and sits up, though slowly. His frame reports back a feeling of repair that is dizzying. He can't remember the last time he was so functional. “I am in violation of my surrender by remaining on a planet I am incapable of leaving.”   
  
Ratchet snorts a laugh and the prickle of a scan washes over Megatron. “That and you're too much of a coward to face Optimus after he was gracious enough to let you live. You can't lie to me, brat. I was there when you onlined.”   
  
Yes. He had been. That memory is dim at best, shelved as it has been with all other memories of his time with Optimus, but Megatron can recall Ratchet being present, albeit as a young apprentice to the on-duty medic, Hardline.   
  
He would like to deny Ratchet's claim, but the anger fizzles out before it can so much as heat his engine.   
  
“Did Optimus send you or did you seek me of your own accord?” Megatron asks instead, choosing to dismiss Ratchet's comment entirely.   
  
“A bit of both.” Ratchet smirks, but it's an exhausted expression, holding little of the joyous snark that had been so common in the medic. “Maybe I just felt sorry for you.”   
  
Megatron waves him off. “Pah. Your spark never had room for pointless pity.”   
  
Ratchet adjusts something on a handheld scanner and then looks at Megatron with a dark chuckle. “And you haven't lost your silver tongue.” The unit beeps a cheerful tone. “Well, you're not optimal but you'll live. Guess this old mech still has a trick or two after all.”   
  
“There's a reason you've survived, Ratchet, and I do not think it luck.”   
  
“Why Megatron, that was almost a compliment.” Ratchet sets his scanner aside and steps back, giving Megatron room. “Your self-repair will do the rest. Come on. You've got work to do.”   
  
He slides from the berth and puts weight down on his pedes, marveling at the lack of pain. There's an ache, that of healing joints and lines shuffling as they accept their repaired state, but there's no pain. He is hard-pressed to call it pleasure simply because it's been so long since he's felt such a thing.   
  
Gratitude is close to the surface, but he reminds himself that it had been duty that saved his life and nothing else.   
  
“Work?”   
  
“To discuss the terms of the truce.”   
  
Ah. Those. He supposes there is a certain responsibility that comes with functioning. Though he wonders how much a truce matters when, right now, Megatron is the only Decepticon still alive.   
  
“Have you found a means to leave Earth?”   
  
“Not for us, but for you, yes.” Ratchet gestures for Megatron to precede him, out of the rickety warehouse that must serve as his medbay and into a cool, rainy afternoon. “Prime will explain all of that to you. I'm just the medic.”   
  
Just the medic? Megatron will never believe that. No other Autobot medic of note had survived the war and even when Ratchet had been a senator, he'd been an unholy terror that few could counter.   
  
Organized chaos best describes the Autobot base. Humans scurry about, shouting at each other. Nearby warehouses of various sizes give off Cybertronian signatures, no doubt more Autobots, all of them injured in some capacity.   
  
But there is only one mech who truly captures Megatron's attention. Optimus steps out of the nearest warehouse, leaving the door open behind him. His gaze sweeps the base but he notices Megatron around the same time that Ratchet calls to him.   
  
Or barks rather. Ratchet does not know the meaning of the word 'subtle.' Or tact.   
  
“You shouldn't even be standing!” He storms forward with all the fury of a medic who hasn't been obeyed.   
  
Optimus, Megatron notices, is still missing an arm, though the connectors themselves have been repaired. His armor gives testament to the recent battle, scarred, dented, and scored.   
  
“I am not so free as to commit myself to a berth,” Optimus replies with that irritating dignity of his. “I am functional. There are other patients who need your care.”   
  
Ratchet's engine growls as he stomps past his Prime and into the warehouse. “Sideswipe is stable, Optimus. And so is everyone else for that matter. Probably because they are _resting_ as I told them to do. Start worrying about yourself.”   
  
“He is terminally incapable of such a thing,” Megatron offers and now, he's close enough to see inside the warehouse Optimus had exited.   
  
A Cybertronian frame rests on a makeshift berth similar to the one that had held Megatron. He recognizes the slim, silver Autobot as the aforementioned Sideswipe.   
  
So. He had outlived Sunstreaker all the way to the end. It certainly shows who Primus favors in all this.   
  
“Yes, I know.” Ratchet grabs the warehouse door. “I'll let you know when Sideswipe's online. But I'd better not see you until then, not unless you are in your own fragging berth. Understood?”   
  
Prime versus medic. Megatron knows who will win.   
  
Optimus' helm dips. “Keep me apprised of his condition.”   
  
Ratchet's answer is to huff a ventilation and slam the door shut in Optimus' face. It would be amusing if Megatron had anything left of humor within him. But he's too angry and too tired to muster up a chuckle.   
  
He arches an orbital ridge instead. “Do you have a vested interest in that Autobot?”   
  
Optimus gives him a cool look and turns away, walking with an unbalanced tilt. “We have work to do.”   
  
An evasion. How curious.   
  
“Work,” Megatron repeats and falls into step beside his brother, side by side, equal as they had never been. “I assume you expect I'll agree no matter what terms you lay.”   
  
Shackles, he reminds himself. He never managed to escape them after all.   
  
“I _expect_ that you'll be grateful I spared your life.”   
  
Megatron's optics cycle down. “Not enough that I'll allow myself to be beholden to you. I'd sooner offline.”   
  
They arrive at another warehouse, this one empty of all but a stack of crates, perhaps supplies. Optimus turns to face him now that they are free of prying optics and something in his expression is different than before.   
  
“You regret nothing, do you, Megatron?” Optimus asks, and there's a slump to his shoulders that wasn't present before, as though he's given himself permission to show weakness now that no one is looking. And he sounds... tired.   
  
Megatron's hands form slow fists. “No, I do not. You would not hear me.” He cycles a ventilation, alarmed by its sharpness. “I did what had to be done.”   
  
He regrets that it had taken him this far to come to this place, the beginning all over again. He regrets that he'd failed. He regrets losing Sunstreaker and millions of Decepticons all for the sake of a failure.   
  
But he does not regret the choice to try.   
  
“I'm listening now.”   
  
This time, Megatron does bark a laugh. But there's no humor in it. He spreads his hands. “I'm at your mercy, brother. There seems little point.”   
  
“Do not call me that.”   
  
Optimus steps closer to him. His energy field is a dull press against Megatron's, enclosing him in a sensation not unlike that of being trapped.   
  
Megatron does not step back, but he does acknowledge the threat. Optimus may have only one arm, but it would take a single glyph from his comm to call reinforcements. Megatron would be offline before he had a moment to reconsider his action.   
  
So it has come to this. Very well then.   
  
He dips his helm. Optimus wants subservience? Is that not the part the Lord High Protector should play?   
  
Round and round and round again.   
  
“State your terms.”   
  
Optimus looks at him. And then he produces a datapad from subspace, holding it out to Megatron. He takes it, knowing that just by taking it, a chain is forming around his spark.   
  
He reads the introduction. He skims the table of contents, the rules at their minimum before delving into details. And he almost wants to laugh.   
  
Of course. _Of course_. Optimus probably thinks he's doing Megatron a favor. That he's being gracious and merciful.   
  
But what choice does Megatron have?  
  
He signs.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
He leaves.   
  
The Autobots supply him with a functioning ship just large enough and Megatron leaves. He takes with him the surviving Decepticons they pulled from the wreckage and as they return to Cybertron, still more are waiting. They've heard the call.   
  
Those who fuss about the end of the war are quietly disposed of. Others help rebuild his tired ranks. They throw their weapons into a smelter pit, per their agreement with Optimus and the Autobots.   
  
How kind of Optimus to turn Cybertron into a prison. One they can leave but choose not to because, despite it all, it is home.   
  
Megatron finds mechs to trust, to lead beside him. They pick Iacon to rebuild first because it's the least ruined and nearest to an active energon mine.   
  
Empty frames are gathered at last with respect. Names are taken for an ever-growing list, their frames recycled, an unfortunate necessity.   
  
There are three assassination attempts, only one of them perpetrated by an Autobot. It is unfortunate that he didn't survive the encounter. Megatron doesn't have to be armed to be a danger.   
  
That doesn't mean he can't still acknowledge the reproach Optimus will bear.   
  
He spends his evenings on the roof of what they call their main command center, though it is less command and more a gathering place. They recharge in this building. They process energon. They perform repairs as Knock Out's arrival had been quite fortuitous though his experience compared to Ratchet's is lacking.   
  
This building is what the Decepticons call home.   
  
But from the roof, Megatron can see the distant star that is Earth. Close enough to reach but far enough that Optimus isn't around for daily visits. He has yet to decide if he is disappointed or relieved.   
  
He recharges alone.   
  
Megatron has had offers, but he declines. There's no room left in his spark, he believes. Not with the pain of Optimus, alive and near but too far. Further, Sunstreaker's loss is too fresh.   
  
Sunstreaker had been the only balm to the pain of Optimus' betrayal, the only one who could possibly understand.   
  
He is not replaceable. Megatron is not willing to try.   
  
All he can do is abide by the terms of the truce. He rebuilds. He restructures. And bit by bit, the fetters enclose his frame, all the way back to the beginning.   
  


***


	6. Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Autobots have come to call and Megatron is reminded of how much he has lost.

It has been centuries by Earth standards. The visit is as much expected as it is anticipated.   
  
The warden has come to call, Megatron catches one of his more cynical mechs snicker. There is some truth to the snide comment.   
  
The years have bred some resentment, though Megatron has taken great pains to keep it silenced and in check. Some of his mechs aren't happy about the upcoming Autobot visit. Others don't approve of being treated as janitors, left to clean up a mess they are only partially at fault for making.   
  
There are murmurs that Megatron should renegotiate the terms of the truce. Some would prefer if the ruling diad returned. Others have expressed their dissatisfaction by advocating for the removal of both Optimus and Megatron.   
  
He fends of another assassination attempt and gives the perpetrator to Skyquake for interrogation. He can't have Optimus' life threatened. Cybertron is barely alive again. They can't afford a return to hostilities.   
  
Megatron waits, on bolts and brackets, for the Autobot shuttle bearing the diplomatic party to arrive. He knows it is the first step toward a dual occupation of Cybertron. It will be the first time he has seen Optimus, tasted his field, since he left Earth.   
  
The shuttle arrives and Megatron waits, with Skyquake and Thundercracker, for the Autobots to disembark. He doesn't know who to expect because he doesn't know which Autobots have made their way to Earth. But he has his suspicions.   
  
Optimus is the first to appear to no surprise. He is followed by Ratchet, again to be expected. But the third Autobot is, of all mechs, Sideswipe and Megatron can't think of a single, logical reason for him to be here. And he looks as uncomfortable in Optimus' shadow as Megatron is baffled at his presence.   
  
Until he remembers a conversation and Optimus' concern for Sideswipe above and beyond that of a commander for his troops.   
  
Realization dawns and Megatron almost laughs.   
  
_Oh, Optimus, we are even more alike than you think._  
  
If Sideswipe is anything like this twin, then Optimus could have chosen none better to serve as replacement. It's almost a pity Megatron will have to disavow him of that notion and return to his rightful place.   
  
Megatron welcomes Optimus with an acceptance that is only feigned in part. The bitterness he buries deep and he ignores the jealousy that threatens to linger.   
  
He makes it a point to ignore Sideswipe for now. The silver mech is irrelevant. A diversion, nothing more.   
  
He focuses instead on showing Optimus that he has kept to the terms of the truce. Cybertron has improved in leaps and bounds. As it is, New Iacon is the only habitable sector of the planet, but with time and the return of their people, they can eventually expand.   
  
Optimus makes the appropriate noises of approval, his words polite and professional. An outside observer would think them nothing but acquaintances for all the personal attention he affords Megatron and perhaps it's better that way. He catches only the barest wisps of Optimus' field, and even those glimpses are restrained.   
  
If Optimus misses Megatron at all, he doesn't show it.   
  
Perhaps Sideswipe is to blame for that.   
  
Megatron does not glare at the silver warrior, no matter how he feels he should. It would be both petty and adolescent.  
  
His chance to confront Sideswipe comes much later, after he's left Optimus and Ratchet in Thundercracker's more than capable hands and Sideswipe had retreated to the quarters Megatron arranged for their comfort.   
  
And Megatron, Lord High Protector, leader of a defeated faction, comes face to face with his brother's lover and makes a request. That it comes out closer to a demand is beside the point. Sideswipe takes what he does not deserve to have and it is up to Megatron to remind him of that.   
  
In Sideswipe's refusal, the bristling fluff of his armor, Megatron sees echoes of Sunstreaker. Tamer, less sharp, but achingly similar.   
  
“I have the right to stay beside him as long as he wants me,” Sideswipe argues and it stings, deeper than the mech can realize.   
  
_As long as he wants me._  
  
The words echo, the accusation a double-lined undertone.   
  
Megatron holds his ventilations steady, withholding his tremors. “You think highly of yourself, don't you? Even with that shattered bond.”   
  
To say the word unfair is yet another juvenile argument. Sideswipe has his own twin! It is no one's fault but his own if he'd rid himself of Sunstreaker.   
  
“Sunstreaker's betrayal was his own choice. As was yours.”   
  
Betrayal. He throws the words so blithely. He can't see the treachery in himself, how he'd turned his back on his own twin. Blind loyalty to a Prime who had done none of them any favors and that had been the beginning of the schism.   
  
Megatron doesn't have to ask to know who struck first in that altercation. He hadn't needed someone to tell him that hesitation had been Sunstreaker's downfall. He'd read the rhythm of the battle in Sunstreaker's frame and he'd known that had Sunstreaker hated his twin an ounce more, it would be Optimus mourning Sideswipe.   
  
Megatron's spark throbs and he moves closer without thought. “And you made him regret that choice. Thoroughly.” The blow to the spark chamber had been particularly savage.  
  
“I did what I had to do,” Sideswipe snaps, his field raking against Megatron's with greater strength than he would have given the other mech. “Don't think for a single moment that I don't regret it every moment of my life.”   
  
Regret, he says. And yet it had taken him no time at all to find another berth. How long had he waited before replacing Sunstreaker with Optimus?  
  
Megatron's hands twitch, pulling into slow fists though he knows he cannot strike this mech. Not without violating the terms of the truth. Words, he thinks, are always so empty and useless.   
  
They did not work then, they do not work now, and they accomplish nothing. Action speaks so much louder.   
  
But then the sound of a door sliding open catches Megatron's audials and he doesn't have to look to know that someone has entered. Nor does he need a look to guess who it is. His spark sings a song of longing, pinging him a need to soothe his ache.   
  
But Sideswipe does not catch the sound, instead he speaks into the silence as though coming to his own realization.   
  
Sideswipe's ventilations cycle loudly and then he straightens, meeting Megatron's optics with resolve. “I don't know if you sought me out for a fight or because you wanted something. Either way, I'm not playing your game. I didn't come here for you. I came because Optimus wants me here and that's what matters to me. If you've got a problem with that, take it up with him.”   
  
He turns away from Megatron, summarily ending the conversation and dismissing him. And only then does he notice they are no longer alone. The surprise in his vocals is further proof that he hadn't noticed Optimus' arrival.   
  
“Optimus. I thought you were touring with Ratchet.”   
  
“We finished early.” Optimus looks past his lover and meets Megatron's optics, accusing as much as questioning. “Is everything all right?”   
  
“Nothing is wrong,” Sideswipe hedges as though he's doing Megatron a favor. “Megatron was just leaving.”   
  
And Megatron laughs. What else can he do in such a situation? He is the lesser being here, abandoned and dismissed and betrayed a thousand times over.   
  
“Calm yourself, brother,” he says, moving into the main room, feeling the challenge in the edge of Optimus' field. “I was merely having a chat with your subordinate. It is only my right to speak with the mech serving as my replacement.”   
  
“Sideswipe is no replacement,” Optimus says and he stands just behind Sideswipe, placing a hand on Sideswipe's shoulder as though staking claim. “He is the mech I chose as opposed to the one fate forced upon me.”   
  
Megatron recoils.   
  
Forced?  
  
 _Forced!?_  
  
Optimus is not the only mech who had no choice in this! And he searches for a rebuttal that doesn't give truth to the pain, to the anger now roiling within him like a dark poison, straining the limits of the truce.   
  
“He can't rule at your side!” Megatron hisses, and though he has mastered his words, he can't master his field. It slips free of his control, betraying the hurt.   
  
Optimus stands there as though he is the only one who has suffered.   
  
“Nor shall he.” Optimus moves nearer to Sideswipe, their fields overlapping, a show of unity that once belonged to the ruling diad. “You are the Lord High Protector, Megatron, and that is all you will ever be. Any further bond between us is gone and you have only yourself to blame.”   
  
“Brother--”  
  
“Do not call me that. You have lost that right. Just as you have no business here, in this room.” Optimus glares, his plating bristled, and there they are, united against Megatron.   
  
Together.   
  
Megatron presses his lipplates together and dips his helm. For that is what Lord High Protectors should do, yes? Bow to their Primes. He cycles a ventilation, but it does nothing to calm the rage, only bury it deeper.   
  
“Very well,” he says. “I will leave you in peace.”   
  
And he does. He walks out of the room with the shreds of dignity that remain, feeling Optimus' contempt burning his back as he goes. If there had been any hope of reconciliation, of even friendship, that hope has turned to ashes.   
  
The door closes behind him and Megatron stares at the floor, forcing his hands to unclench. He cycles several ventilations, unwilling to let anyone see him in a disordered state.   
  
“I'm going to hazard a guess that didn't go anything like you planned.”   
  
He nearly leaps out of his plating and his battle protocols do online, armor clamping tight to his frame as his cannon powers up with a whine.   
  
Ratchet holds up his hands in a universal sign for surrender and takes a step back. “Peace. I thought you knew I was here.”   
  
“I did not,” Megatron snarls and forcibly powers down his defensive subroutines. “Why are you lurking in the corridors?”   
  
Ratchet lowers his hands and affixes Megatron with a glare. “I'm not lurking. I'm ensuring that my services are not needed. And since you emerged with plating intact, I'm going to assume that Optimus hadn't needed to put you in your place.”   
  
His vocalizer clicks but no words emerge. He narrows his optics at the medic before deciding, no, Ratchet is not worth it. He starts down the corridor. He is in sudden need of solitude.   
  
Until the sharp prickle of a scan hits his backplate. Megatron draws up short and whirls on a heelstrut.   
  
“Explain yourself,” he demands.   
  
Ratchet blithely looks down at his scanner. “Physically, you're in better shape than the last time we met,” he says as though they are in the medcenter for standard maintenance as opposed to the middle of the blasted hallway. “Given the nature of your field, I'd have expected worse.”   
  
Megatron stalks closer to the medic. “Is there something I can help you with, medic, or do you delight in my humiliation?”   
  
Ratchet tucks away his scanner and looks up at Megatron, tilting his helm. “You don't desire, Optimus. You don't truly want to be at his side. Why would you even ask?”   
  
He startles.   
  
Megatron retreats a pace. “That is a rather personal and pointed question, medic.”   
  
“Yes, well, no one ever accused me of having tact.” Ratchet folds his arms, nothing in his field speaking of anxiety. “What do you really want, Megatron?”   
  
“Nothing I am capable of obtaining.” He shows Ratchet his back once more, the longing for solitude doubled in its intensity. “If you have something important to discuss, you know where to find me. Until then, have a pleasant recharge.”   
  
“Funny how when you say that, it rather sounds like you mean for me to go frag myself,” Ratchet says after him, but there's more humor than offense in his tone.   
  
Megatron chooses to ignore him. The terms of the truce dictate that he refrains from attacking Autobots. Politeness is not a requirement, only a courtesy. And Megatron's all out of frags to give.   
  
There's a cube of high grade in his quarters and Megatron has no intentions of sharing it.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Of course, life is not that easy.   
  
Megatron is forced online the next duty cycle by a relentless pinging at his door. He attempts to ignore the request for entry but his visitor is not one to be deterred, which means it is not one of his subordinates. They would have known to leave well-enough alone by now.   
  
Megatron rolls out of the berth, kicks aside two empty containers of high grade, and stumbles out of the berthroom. His gyros are destabilized, his processor is fuzzy, and there's an ache in his circuits.   
  
Part of him expects the visitor to be Optimus, perhaps come to berate Megatron for his behavior yesterday and lay more admonitions upon him. To remind him of his place, the truce he'd signed, and the terms he hadn't contested.   
  
Because if there is one thing Megatron needs, it is a reminder of how much he has failed.   
  
He slams his palm onto the access panel and allows the door to slide open, tapping into the pit of anger in his spark to propel him out of a fog of overcharge.   
  
But it is Ratchet who barges into Megatron's corners though an invitation had not been extended. “Thank you for saving me the trouble of hacking the lock,” he says, though there is no true appreciation in his vocals.   
  
Megatron stares at the medic, half-convinced he is hallucinating. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”   
  
Ratchet looks at him, his optics as incisive a scan as the actual equipment. “I didn't think your field could get any more vile. Clearly, I was wrong.” An optic ridge pops up.   
  
Megatron growls. “I must have missed the part where you _explained why you are here_.”   
  
“Your spark is distressed.”  
  
He rolls his optics and leaves the medic in the entry, returning to his berthroom. Surely there is some coolant around here somewhere. “You are as observant as ever. What I don't understand is why this is a surprise.”  
  
“Because Optimus is fine.”   
  
“Optimus,” Megatron hisses, “has consoled himself in the arms of another. Surely as Cybertron's foremost medic, you can make the connection.”   
  
Ratchet steps further within, optics skimming the room as though looking for a clue to a mystery. “And you've been alone.” It is more statement than question.   
  
There is a short answer and a long answer to that question. Megatron toys with the container in his hands, letting the silence wash through the room. He is not sure he wants to give the truth, not when it is a weakness. But then, the depths to which he has sunk should be painfully obvious.   
  
“How long?” Megatron asks instead.   
  
Ratchet makes a noncommittal noise. “I'm going to assume you are asking me about Optimus and Sideswipe and as far as I know, not long after the war first began. Since Nova Cronum at the very least.” He sighs. “Since Sideswipe--”  
  
“--killed Sunstreaker,” Megatron finishes before Ratchet can.   
  
He remembers Nova Cronum. Of all the defining moments in the history of the Decepticon offensive, Megatron assuredly remembers Nova Cronum. It had been all the reminder he needed that he still had something to lose. And that it could be taken from him.   
  
“You have answered your own question,” Megatron says and lets the silence overtake them.   
  
Surprise flashes in Ratchet's field before he can withdraw it. But then it settles into contemplation. “There were no others?”  
  
“I am the leader of the Decepticons, the Lord High Protector, I do not blithely share my berth,” Megatron snaps, his plating rustling with offense. “After Sunstreaker, I saw no need.”   
  
Ratchet leans against the doorframe. “Saw no need?” he asks. “Or feared the risk?”  
  
He ignores the question.   
  
“Don't you have somewhere to be?”   
  
“Right now? Nope. You get to enjoy my undivided attention.”   
  
“I have never felt so lucky,” Megatron drawls and slumps down onto his berth, clutching the container of coolant as though it were a lifetime. “I suppose your professional opinion is that I need a new partner.”   
  
Ratchet shrugs. “It couldn't hurt.”   
  
He laughs, though there's nothing of humor in it. “You should take your own advice, medic.”   
  
“I am aware. But since you ripped my best friend in half and Sentinel rusted my partner, I don't have many options,” Ratchet says flatly.  
  
Megatron cycles his optics and straightens. “And so you decided that your best option was to come to the one mech responsible for your misery?”   
  
“I am a medic first, Megatron. And given our circumstances, it's all I have left.” He pushes off the door frame and shifts as though to leave, but he hesitates. “It's all your war left me with.”   
  
“My war?”   
  
“True, we are all culpable, but for fear of sounding like a sparkling, you started it.”   
  
Megatron crushes the empty container of coolant and shoves himself off the berth. “You were a civilian. Of course you don't understand why it was necessary.”  
  
“Oh, I understand,” Ratchet snaps and his field floods the room with an abrupt anger. “I may have started a civilian, but we are all of us soldiers now.” He pauses, the blaze in his optics dimming to a faint glow. “In fact, if equality was truly your aim, you succeeded, because we're all equal now. Equally fragged. We don't know anything but war, and all that's left is hate.”   
  
Megatron's own anger fizzles before it even takes route. He rubs his faceplate. “You're wrong,” he says. “If all we had was hate, none of this would be possible.” His other hand makes a vague gesture to his window and the view of steady reconstruction.   
  
There's a soft whuff of ventilation, Ratchet performing a systems check. “You make a fine point,” he says. “I guess there's hope for you yet.”   
  
He gathers himself and retreats from Megatron's berthroom and Megatron follows because curiosity overrules all. But it seems Ratchet is merely leaving. It is somewhat abrupt but then, Ratchet has a habit of not wasting his time.   
  
“My medical opinion stands,” Ratchet tosses over his shoulder. “Your isolation is not doing you any favors.”   
  
“Your advice is appreciated.”   
  
The medic makes a noncommittal noise and pokes the panel, the door sliding open in front of him.   
  
“Ratchet?”   
  
The pedestops pause just inside the doorframe.   
  
“For what it's worth, I am sorry,” Megatron says and though the apology burns, it doesn't hurt. Not like he expected it would. “Ironhide was a great warrior. He'll be missed.”   
  
Ratchet raps a nonsensical rhythm against the frame. “Yes. I know.”   
  
The door slides shut behind Ratchet, leaving Megatron alone once more. Somehow, it's not as much of a relief as he thought it would be.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Megatron is the only one to bear witness to the Autobots' departure. This visit, after all, had only been a test. It would be up to Optimus whether or not the two factions would share residence once again.   
  
“You have done good work here,” Optimus says, lingering at the end of the ramp, the last of his mechs to board.  
  
Megatron folds his arms. “You sound surprised.”   
  
“Not surprised. But... proud.” His brother corrects – no, his Prime. Optimus has made it quite clear they are nothing more than co-rulers. And Megatron is more or less fine with that.  
  
Megatron snorts and rolls his optics. “Then I've accomplished my goals because Primus knows, all I've ever wanted was your approval.”   
  
Optimus rubs his forehelm with a pained look. “You make everything complicated,” he says with a frustrated ex-vent.   
  
“It's a special talent.”   
  
Megatron eyes the shuttle, wondering if Sideswipe looked out on them. Is he jealous? Does he seethe? Is he at all insecure?  
  
“Megatron.”   
  
He shifts his attention back to Optimus and blinks at the sight of the hand extended toward his. He recognizes the gesture, of course. He had spent long enough time on Earth to know what it means.  
  
“Until all are one,” Optimus says and he waits.   
  
Megatron's engine rumbles. He presses his lipplates together and shakes his helm.   
  
“You and your blasted recruitment,” he mutters before taking Optimus' hand, their fields coming into dizzying contact. Something like a shock passes between them, winnowing straight through to Megatron's core. His spark pulses as his optics brighten.  
  
“What in the Allspark?” he demands, recoiling.   
  
“A promise,” Optimus says and releases his hand at last. “I never wish to fight you again and I would hope you feel the same.”   
  
Megatron huffs a ventilation. “If there is anything this war has shown me, it is that such is a futile effort.”   
  
“So you say.” Something in his field flattens before Optimus takes a step back, onto the ramp leading up into his shuttle. “The next time we meet it will be to reunite our factions. It is my hope that day is sooner rather than later.”   
  
“If only we could all be so optimistic.” Megatron shakes his helm. “Have a safe journey, Optimus.” He waves a dismissive hand and turns away from his co-ruler.   
  
He feels the weight of Optimus' gaze for a longer moment before the Prime finally boards his shuttle. His exit is a relief.   
  
Megatron has work to do.   
  


***


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All are truly one as Megatron learns that forgiveness is in the eye of the beholder.

The Autobots return to Cybertron, fewer than Megatron expects, but more than he is comfortable with.   
  
There is no talk of separate barracks or slow integration.   
  
“We are one people,” Optimus declares to the gathered crowd and those watching the broadcast. “It is time we behave as such.”   
  
Megatron stands beside him, a show of support and agreement. He is without a badge and now, even Optimus has removed his. They are not Autobots or Decepticons.   
  
They are one.   
  
Optimus, as talented with words as ever, draws applause and cheers. Even the former Decepticons show few signs of bitterness. Peace, while initially difficult to accept, had become addictive to them all. And the survivors fill the planet's energy with relief.   
  
Megatron himself finds it hard to hold to his disdain.   
  
Ratchet's words, though spoken in anger, have become a comfort. He had, if not by plan, accomplished his goal.   
  
They are all equal, perhaps in misery, but still, one and the same. It brings Megatron a sense of closure. He feels that much less like a complete failure. Though the chains of obligation yet prove their weight.   
  
And then the celebrations begin. They were Thundercracker's idea and Optimus had supported him with cheer. Even Ratchet had put in his agreement and Skyquake had reluctantly agreed to the importance.   
  
What better way to cement alliances than a party? High grade is the perfect lubricant, so to speak. And when Megatron suspends the rebuilding for a cycle so that everyone can attends, spirits are at their zenith.   
  
The cheer is almost infectious, but Megatron removes himself of it. He chooses to observe from afar instead, watching for potential trouble. High grade makes friends but it can also cause old hurts to resurface. Someone needs to be paying attention and it's certainly not his co-ruler, Megatron notices with distaste.   
  
No. Optimus is barely visible in the thickest of the crowd, politicking with the same cube of high grade in one hand and Sideswipe at his other. Their behavior is perfectly appropriate, chaste even to the casual observer, but a trained optic can detect all the subtleties.   
  
_He is the one I chose as opposed to the one forced upon me._  
  
Megatron sneers.   
  
It is not jealousy that overcomes him. But there is a faint longing and a lingering resentment.   
  
Primus certainly shows his favor at times like these.   
  
Behind him, Megatron hears the door slide open. He suspects it is one of his subordinates but a quick scan informs him otherwise.   
  
“Shouldn't you be enjoying the festivities?” Megatron asks without turning.   
  
“Since when have you known me to enjoy anything?” Ratchet retorts as he sidles up beside Megatron, holding out a cube of mid-grade.   
  
Megatron takes it, grunting out a thanks.   
  
“Besides,” Ratchet continues, sipping at his own cube of midgrade. No overindulgence for him apparently. “I could ask the same of you.”   
  
Megatron leans against the railing, cradling his cube with both hands. “I am in no mood for revelry.”   
  
“You're brooding.”   
  
He tosses the medic a glare from his periphery. “I am doing my duty.” He gestures with one hand to the merrymaking getting louder by the nanoklik. “The slightest spark could set off a fire.”   
  
Ratchet leans against the rail, optics skimming the helms of all the mechs beneath them. They are close enough to pick out familiar faces, but far enough that conversation is a dull roar.   
  
“I see.” He tips his helm, lips curving into a grin. “And you think Optimus is the most likely culprit?”  
  
Megatron doesn't dignify that with an answer. He sips at his cube, and raises his orbital ridges in surprise. The flavor is actually quite pleasant. It's something Sunstreaker would have enjoyed anyway. He had an appreciation for the darker brews.   
  
“They're going to bond,” Ratchet says.   
  
Something crawls down Megatron's backstrut and settles in his engine with a growl. “Yes, I know.”   
  
“Optimus told you?”   
  
“As a courtesy.” And hadn't that been a joyous conversation to have?   
  
“Terms of the truce?”   
  
Megatron laughs with more static than he intended. “Something like that.”   
  
He stares at the mass of seething Cybertronians, easily picking out his co-ruler despite the larger warframes cloistered around him. Sideswipe is even more difficult to see, especially since he's reframed himself again. Gone is the heavy, bulky warrior's armor, placed by something more aesthetic, a civilian’s build. The matching blades are completely gone.   
  
Sunstreaker would have been appalled.   
  
Ratchet makes a noncommittal noise. “Well, at least someone gets a happy ending.”   
  
Megatron tilts his helm toward the medic, not that Ratchet is at all looking at him. “Why are you here?” It's a curious thing, he has to admit. Of anyone he would expect to seek his company this evening, Ratchet is not on the list.   
  
Ratchet arches an orbital ridge at him. “Staying on Earth wasn't an option.”   
  
“Not what I meant and you know it.”  
  
His fingers drum an off-rhythm on the railing as he sighs a ventilation. “I figured if there was one other mech who was left with nothing else, it would be you,” Ratchet admits.   
  
_But since you ripped my best friend in half and Sentinel rusted my partner, I don't have many options._  
  
Oh.   
  
Megatron bows his helm, something a lot like shame passing through his spark. He tosses back the last of the midgrade and sets the cube aside.   
  
Silence settles between them, but it's not entirely awkward. Not with all the noise beneath them, the loud music and the laughter and in the corner, someone's set up an impromptu stage with invitations to dance. There's a lot of Earth culture influencing the moves.   
  
Ratchet is the first to break the silence.   
  
“He never hated you. Not once,” Ratchet says, tone conversational and his optics focused on the joyful crowd below. “He'd say, _Ratch, why?_ And I couldn't give him an answer. It tore him apart to turn his back on his vow. He kept saying he could save you.”   
  
Megatron snorts a ventilation. “I didn't need to be saved.”   
  
“Yes, you did. But not for the reasons you think.” Ratchet sighs. “I wish he could see this.”   
  
Megatron clenches his hands into fists. “There are many who should be here.”   
  
A small noise of agreement rumbles through Ratchet's chassis before he pushes away from the balcony railing.   
  
“It's late,” the medic says, his tone carefully bland. “I should go.”   
  
Megatron watches him finish off the last of the midgrade and tuck the empty cube into his subspace.   
  
“Don't stay here observing all evening,” Ratchet continues, his armor ruffling in a light stretch before it settled.   
  
“I know my limits.”   
  
“Of course you do.” Ratchet offers a crooked smile and makes his way to the doorway, taking with him the comforting press of a field given in companionship.   
  
Megatron returns his attention to the crowd beneath him and tracks the sound of the medic leaving. For a moment, he almost asks Ratchet to linger, but then the moment passes, Ratchet is gone, and Megatron is left with his solitary contemplation.  
  
It is not as welcome as it had been. 

0o0o0

  
  
The memorial had been a side project, one of great importance, but set aside while worrying first about accommodations and energon production. In the end, it became Megatron's personal task and he designed and constructed it himself, with the occasional volunteer putting in overtime to lend a hand.   
  
It's the best punishment he could have given himself, he realizes, to see what his own hands have done to his planet. The lists of the dead go on and on. The frames recovered are ravaged by war, stripped of useful parts, given no dignity.   
  
Their history is gone, their progress limited in all but the art of battle. And with every wall he raises, the dead become more than frames to him. They are not faceless enemies that stood in his way. They are mechs who once had dreams of their own.   
  
More than seeing the ruin Cybertron had become, this is the ultimate in humility.   
  
So many names. So many faces. And there are thousands, millions more out there, that will be forgotten entirely. The war had spread across the universe, the battles taking place all over the galaxy.   
  
Megatron may never know the full tally of the damage he has done. It is easy to stand in front of Optimus and claim that he has no regrets, but not so easy to do it here. Building this mausoleum has done what Optimus would have never succeeded with his speeches and his words.   
  
The millions of names stare back at him, judging in silence, and Megatron can't ignore the shame of it.   
  
He _owes_ and the tattered remnants of his Protectorate coding drive him to reparation, but even without it, Megatron would have done so. By his own choice, rather than order of the Prime, and that makes it so much easier.   
  
His field prickles. He is no longer alone.   
  
“Is my brother here?”   
  
It takes great effort not to cringe at the unwelcome presence. Megatron has grown accustomed to not having visitors here.   
  
Sideswipe will be the first.   
  
He rises to his pedes and turns. His brother's lover is within reach, but far enough that he displays a touch of wariness. Considering their last encounter, Megatron is not surprised.   
  
“Yes,” Megatron answers. After all, it's in his best interest to be civil. “How kind of you to remember that he existed.”   
  
Sideswipe's optics narrow. “I was not the one who walked away.”   
  
“Perhaps not. But you did not leave him any other choice. A trait you and my brother share.” Megatron shifts away from Sideswipe, heading toward a nearby corridor.   
  
He hears a shift in weight as Sideswipe falls in step behind him. “You still call him that?”   
  
“Disowning me does not make the link between us nonexistent,” Megatron growls, his armor clamping tight to his frame. If he still had his cannon, it would be powering up now, but alas, he goes unarmed most of the time now. “As you well know.”   
  
Sideswipe makes a noncommittal sound and Megatron allows the conversation to lapse. Spending quality time with his brother's lover is not something that holds any appeal. And he is glad that the next room bears what he seeks.   
  
There's nothing special here, nothing that would make it stand out from any of the others. It's another series of names and plaques and labeled drawers, for lack of a better word, containing the memories and remnants of the millions of sparks lost in the war. Megatron doesn't have to search to know that on the far wall, six rows down and twelve plaques over is Sunstreaker.   
  
“There,” he says, pointing. If Sideswipe can't find his own twin's name amongst the others, he has no right to view it.   
  
Sideswipe's optics narrow, but he follows direction well enough. A soldier to the spark, even if he's reconstructed himself for a civilian's life. For Optimus' sake or his own? Megatron's not about to ask.   
  
Megatron hangs back, watching as Sideswipe is unerringly drawn to the plaque, as though there's some connection between himself and Sunstreaker's empty frame. Sideswipe pauses, staring, his hands at rest at his side.   
  
And then Sideswipe reaches for the plaque and Megatron growls before he can stop himself. He's not even sure if it's warning or jealousy. He only knows that he doesn't want Sideswipe touching even so much as the memory of Sunstreaker.   
  
He lost that right when his sword pierced Sunstreaker's spark.   
  
Sideswipe, wisely, does not push his luck. He retracts his hand, tucking it at his side. He stares at the small plaque, no larger than any of the others, a name amongst millions.   
  
Megatron hadn't been able to justify anything larger to himself. No one, outside of the mechs closest to him, had even known Sunstreaker was his lover.   
  
“It's not fair, you know,” Sideswipe says, his vocals soft but echoing in the mausoleum. “You get your second chance. Frag, you get a third chance.” His hands fist at his sides. “We only had the one.”   
  
Megatron ventilates harshly. “Don't speak to me of second chances,” he hisses. “I would have traded Optimus' spark for Sunstreaker's without second thought.”   
  
He says it without truly thinking through his response and startles himself with the realization that it's true. It's not bravado or a lie to save face.   
  
He would have traded Optimus for Sunstreaker in a sparkbeat.   
  
_He is the mech I chose as opposed to the one thrust upon me._   
  
And Megatron almost laughs because Optimus is fragging right and it burns as much as it relieves.   
  
Sideswipe turns, looking at him over a shoulder. “You loved him.” He sounds surprised. And why wouldn't he be?   
  
Megatron is the lord of the Decepticons, the destroyer of his own planet and murderer to millions of the people he swore to protect. There's no possibility of him being capable of such an emotion.   
  
Pah.   
  
He shows Sideswipe his back. “The door will lock behind you,” Megatron says, utilizing the most civil tone he knows. “I trust you can see yourself out.”   
  
He has nothing to prove. And he's done defending himself or his actions.   
  
“Megatron.”   
  
He pauses, but he doesn't turn. That he lingers is invitation enough for Sideswipe to speak.   
  
“Thank you,” the silver mech says after a moment.   
  
“It was not for your sake,” Megatron retorts, his vocals edging toward a growl. “But you are welcome all the same.”   
  
He takes his leave, giving Sideswipe no chance to argue further. He does not think he will ever like Sideswipe, but for Optimus' sake, he will tolerate him.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Anxiety is not an emotion to which Megatron is accustomed. Yet he feels it twisting at his spark as he stands outside the door to Optimus' quarters.   
  
This must be done. He owes it to himself as much as he owes it to Optimus, but he finds it hard to lift his hand and press that button.   
  
The choice is made for him when the door slides open and Optimus stands in the entryway, looking at him. “Can I help you?” he asks, his tone not quite frosty, but perfectly flat.   
  
Anxious he might be, but Megatron is Lord High Protector. He refuses to squirm. “What I have to say can't be spoken in the hallway,” he says.   
  
Optimus looks at him, his field flashing out in a quick probe before he inclines his helm and steps aside. “The meeting is tomorrow,” he says. “Could this not have waited?”   
  
“It is a personal matter.”   
  
Megatron searches for Sideswipe with both optics and field, but can't see the mech anywhere. Either he is not here or he is in another room, which is fortunate, because this would be hard enough without having an audience to complicate matters.   
  
Optimus ventilates a sigh. “Megatron, we are working together and behaving in a civilized matter. That is not enough to undo millennia of resentment. I am not--”  
  
He shakes his helm, cutting Optimus off. “No. I don't want that. I don't want... you.”  
  
Optimus' field bursts with surprise before he can reign it in. “Very well,” he says. “I'm listening.”   
  
Megatron cycles his ventilations and straightens his shoulders. He is Lord High Protector, proud and strong.   
  
“We will never be what we were,” Megatron begins, and despite himself, he starts to pace. “And I'm glad for it. I don't want it, neither do you. I don't love you. I don't know that I ever did.”   
  
Optimus dares step closer and Megatron pauses mid-step. “Perhaps not the way we were meant to, no,” he agrees. “But there was a time you meant something to me. And I don't hate you now. I have never hated you.”   
  
Megatron's lip curls into a parody of a smile. Hate and love are not as disparate as the poets might think. “I know.”   
  
He has to pause now because this, right here, is the hardest part. He clasps his hands behind his back to keep from betraying his disquiet.   
  
“I do not regret that we have come to this,” Megatron says. “I still believe that the Cybertron of old was broken. But I do regret the course I took. I could have found another way but I let my anger guide me. And for that, I am sorry.”   
  
Optimus cycles his optics, staring at Megatron. “You are apologizing?”  
  
“I am accepting the blame, yes.”  
  
It's oddly freeing, as though a massive weight has lifted from his chestplate and shoulders. His old, old spark spins a new rhythm that leaves him feeling rejuvenated. Whole.   
  
“And we will never again be lovers. That time has passed, if it was ever meant to be.” Megatron allows his field to extend outward, the smallest wisp of invitation. “But it is my hope that one day, we may yet be friends.”   
  
“Friends,” Optimus repeats and his optics brighten as a small smile takes over his lip plating. “I think I would like that.” He offers his hand to Megatron, field extended to brush against Megatron's own. “I, too, am sorry. For not being more aware. For not listening. We both failed.”   
  
Megatron takes Optimus' hand and a sharp zap travels up his arm, across his shoulder, to his very spark. He stiffens, field flaring, and then he sees--  
  
\--he and Optimus, side by side, facing a common foe--  
  
\--himself, smiling as he stands next to someone, their fields intimately intertwined--  
  
\--a dedication ceremony, Optimus speechifying as Megatron cuts the ribbon--  
  
\--a celebration, dancing and singing and laughing--  
  
\--the sun rising over Cybertron, gleaming off proudly rebuilt spires...   
  
Megatron's optics widen and he jerks back, shaking his helm. The flashing images fade from his optics as he steps out of the embrace of his brother's field.   
  
“What in Primus' name...?” There's static in his vocalizer.   
  
Optimus looks at him, as stunned as Megatron had been. “Approval, I think.” He presses his hand to his chestplate, over his spark and that blasted artifact beneath. “And forgiveness.” His smile is both soft and tentative. “For us both.”   
  
And Megatron, despite it all, smiles as well.   
  
It's not the end he would have imagined, or the one he hoped to achieve, but it is one he can accept. It is one he can live with.   
  
We are one, Optimus had said, and finally, Megatron believes.   
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: And so ends part two of a three part series now titled Interwoven. I think the third part might be called "Inseparable" or "Inseverable" not sure which. It'll continue with Megatron's POV and feature a pairing that may or may not be obvious by now. I hope to get started on it soon.
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, feedback is very welcome and appreciated.


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